by Keary Taylor
Own this, I think to myself. If they’re going to make you completely change your life, don’t be afraid. Show them that you won’t be cowed.
My heels click over the stone floor, echoing through the massive room.
It’s large enough it takes a dozen or so steps before I can recognize who all I am looking at.
People, a few faces I recognize, most I don’t, stare at me. They’re dressed in finery. Mostly black. They stare me down with watchful eyes. Each and every one of them silent.
But it’s Cyrus that I can’t look away from as I cross the room. It’s his black suit with red stitching that matches my skirt that commands respect. It’s his penetrating gaze and mirthful little smile in one corner of his mouth that I can’t quite look away from.
But it’s the throne he sits upon, and the crown atop his head, that steels my breath.
I slow as I approach it—him, and the others. And come to stand before the man who commands power. The man who radiates strength and instills fear in the eyes of vampires.
And I know.
I understand now.
“Your Majesty,” I say, taking a bow, letting my eyes fall from his. I repeat those words I heard from Edmond, two weeks ago, but did not comprehend at the time.
Cyrus, I think as I straighten, is King.
“Hello, Logan,” he says, still holding that little smile. He always seems too amused, watching us little pawns scurry around for his game. He admitted to it before, he stated it last night.
“I always said you were someone important,” I say, forcing my voice not to shake. “But I think I was in denial that I was being held captive by a king.”
A darkness flickers through Cyrus’ eyes at that word. His smile falters just a bit.
“Now you see why I am so involved in the affairs of the Houses,” he says as he stands. He slowly crosses toward me. My eyes rise to the crown atop his head. It’s simple, really. Only solid gold. But it’s scarred, stained. The sharp points of it that circle his head show signs of war and wear. “One must know everything if one is to rule them all.”
I meet his deep eyes. “Either that, or you’re just plain controlling.”
A sharp intake of breath echoes throughout the hall. That’s when my heart jumps into my throat, fear ripping through my veins. I look over Cyrus’ shoulder to see everyone behind with shocked expressions on their faces.
But as I look back at Cyrus, he only smiles that smile of his.
“There’s something about you, Logan Pierce,” he says smoothly. “That is for certain.”
Everyone is deadly quiet. As if they’re waiting for something. For backlash. For him to strike me down.
But Cyrus only takes my hand, and turns back to the crowd. Taking his lead, I step four steps forward, side by side with him.
“To the honorable House of Valdez,” he says, his voice booming with power. “I present Logan Pierce, daughter of Alivia Conrath. Descendant of my grandsons, Dorian and Malachi.”
Another reaction of awe and shock.
My grandsons?
What…what does that even mean?
There are so many things that I could question from just those two words.
But right now, everything, everything is about showing no fear.
Only projecting confidence.
A man steps forward. He looks maybe thirty, at most. As I study him, I pick out similarities. Edmond’s same eyes. Same chin.
“Logan, I’d like to introduce you to Hector Valdez, the leader of the House of Valdez,” Cyrus presents the man, who extends a hand. I take it, shaking his firm grasp.
“It is a surprise to meet you,” he admits honestly. “And the rumors are true. You look just like your mother. She was here at my House just a few years ago.”
This. This is the part that I am not prepared for.
That there is all this history. All these people connected to a mother who I know nothing about.
“As I have heard,” I say, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind.
“As our newest Royal, I hope you have a pleasant visit to the House of Valdez.” He smiles, though it’s tight. And I see it, same as on Edmond last night: he’s nervous.
“You have met my youngest son,” Hector says, turning slightly, extending a hand toward Edmond. “My middle son, Horatio, has lived at Court for some years now. And this is my eldest son, Rafael.” He holds his hand out, in the other direction.
A beautiful man, who looks very similar to his younger brother, steps forward. He takes my hand, cupping it with the other. He presses a kiss to my knuckles. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He looks up at me through thick eyelashes. And something tingles in my lower belly.
A low rumble resonates from Cyrus, and I look over at him to see red embers ignited in his eyes.
Rafael immediately drops my hand, and steps back into line.
Cyrus is certainly intimidating and scary. But I’m getting the feeling I don’t know a hundredth of it.
“And this is the rest of my House,” Hector says, turning and waving a hand to the—I quickly count—twenty-four other people standing on this side of the hall. “There are others, but they are out doing their duties.”
Jobs. Duties. It’s hard to grasp when I know every one of them is a blood-sucking vampire.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” I say, though my voice is not as loud as I would have liked it.
Hector nods his head slightly. “Your highness, for your entertainment, I present our upcoming show, Sands of Set.”
A door opens to the right of the hall, and eerie and foreign music flutters through the huge space. Pulsing. Powerful.
Through it, walk a dozen women. They wear harem pants with intricate designs, scanty tops, scarves wrapped around their faces. Glittering jewels hang from their costumes.
They move and dance as they proceed into the hall.
I look to see Cyrus’ reaction to the sultry procession.
His face is blank.
He reaches for my hand and he guides us back to his throne. He indicates the seat beside his, nearly as ornate as his own, and sits.
He leans back in his seat, one ankle crossed over a knee. He laces his fingers together across his chest.
And from under that crown, upon his throne, the King watches the show.
The women are talented. There is no doubt about that. They roll and writhe, twisting their hips in incredible movements. Their hands dance, fluttering about like they’re riding a wind.
It’s memorizing. There’s something ancient and primal about their movements, and as I watch, I realize they’re actually telling a story. A story about a queen, revered and loved. A woman with power, but a woman who was kind and great.
And then lost.
A single dancer flutters around the room, the others sliding into shadow. She willows in and out of the dark. And with a dramatic, sharp movement, she suddenly drops to the ground, as if dead.
The music stills, becomes a thrumming pulse.
Long, heavy, dramatic moments pass, and she does not move.
Cyrus’ breathing grows harder.
I look over at him.
His jaw is clenched hard. His nostrils flare slightly. His left hand grips the armrest of his throne hard, and I see the metal bending under his strength.
The music reaches a dramatic peak. The woman on the floor slowly climbs to her feet.
She looks around as if lost. Confused.
I realize that Cyrus is holding his breath.
And his mouth hangs just so slightly open.
His eyes have ignited a brilliant red. Black veins creep from around his eyes, stretching out over his face. But there, I see just a tiny bit of emotion welling in them.
“Stop this!”
The words rip from my lips before I even give them a second of consideration as to what I am saying.
The woman—the queen, the dancer—instantly stills, looking at me with surprised, fea
rful eyes. The music cuts off, and every eye turns to me.
I look at Cyrus, but he only stares at the dancer with unrelenting focus.
“I’m bored to tears,” I lie, but put every ounce of confidence I have into my voice. “If this is your King, I suggest you come up with something better.”
“Excuse me,” Hector says, stepping forward. “This is not for you to evaluate or to dismiss. I don’t know who you think you are-”
“Get out,” Cyrus suddenly says. His voice is low. Dangerous.
“Your Majesty-” Hector begins to say.
“I said get out!” Cyrus suddenly bellows. That emotion I saw in his eyes, it’s hidden now, but I can still interpret the pain there. “The woman said she did not like your show, and so I command you to take it elsewhere, and yourselves with it.”
Every one of these vampires, these Royal and powerful vampires, looks at Cyrus with absolute terror. They tremble.
“I shall summon you, Hector, once I have consoled poor Logan,” Cyrus says. “For her utter disappointment in the woeful entertainment you who call yourselves Royals have provided. Prepare to participate in some real entertainment when I do.”
Cyrus’ voice grows more dangerous with every word spoken.
The color disappears from every face around us with his last sentence.
“Go,” Cyrus says quietly.
They all finally move. Some of them dart out of the hall, so fast they’re nothing more than a blur. But the Royal family; Hector, Rafael, and Edmond, slowly walk toward the elevator. Edmond looks over his shoulder as they go, meeting my eyes.
And I swear I see utter hatred in them. A promise of revenge.
A tingle rushes over my skin. Fear. Exhilaration. The promise of a challenge.
Who am I these days?
The hall empties, leaving Cyrus and I alone in silence.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do now.
Cyrus stares at that place where the dancer stood just moments ago.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.
My throat is tight. “You’re welcome,” I manage.
We sit there for several long moments. The silence is heavy. Suffocating. Filled with too much…just too much.
I press my hands together, tucking them between my knees, unsure what to do with myself.
“Do you want to be alone?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and I get the impression he’s debating the question. “Yes.”
I don’t know what makes me extend the mercy, but I reach out, placing my hand on his forearm.
I don’t know what about the dancers brought out such emotion. But his pain—it’s so tangible I can nearly touch it.
His eyes shift over to my hand. When he doesn’t say anything more, I stand. With my heels clicking over the marble floor, I walk to the elevator. It opens as soon as I stand in front of it.
I step inside, not looking back at the king.
And just as the doors slide closed, I hear a howl of agony rip between captivating lips.
The elevator goes down two floors, and when it opens, it’s to the common room from last night. But now, all the windows overlooking the city are mirrors. And it’s packed full of people.
Yelling, arguing, worried words fill the air.
But the second I step out, they all fall dead silent. Every single pair of eyes slides to me.
Hector looks worried, but ready to fight. Edmond looks prepared to kill. Rafael just seems uncertain.
Mina and Fredrick seem almost smug. Like they know what is to come.
“He’s going to begin a game, isn’t he?” Hector asks. And the way his voice shakes, I understand there is history here.
Game. I see a pattern rising. The King himself has said the words. Now they come from a House leader.
“I don’t know what that dance up there was,” I say, keeping my voice cool and calm, “but I do know that you all have been under Cyrus’ rule for quite some time. I know that you should have known better.”
Mixed emotions fill faces around me. Shame. Acceptance. Surprise. Confusion.
“Whatever comes after this,” I say as I step forward, “you all asked for it.”
Through a crowd of vampires, I walk, parting them as I go. I don’t look back as I make my way to my suite.
A moment of silence follows me. But then there are whispers. Hurried. Excited. Fearful.
There’s not a doubt in me that they are about me.
I place my hand on the mirror wall and my doors pop open. I walk inside, closed into the silence of our rooms.
The windows here are open. I walk to them, looking out over the day casting light on the city.
Yet all I really see are those tears pooling in Cyrus’ eyes.
Chapter 12
Two hours later, the door to my suite opens. Mina walks in with a knowing, dark smile.
“The King is ready for you again,” she says. And there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes that tells me something big is about to happen.
She crosses to my closet, throwing it open. She comes out carrying a long garment bag. “He requests that you change into this.” She hands it over and heads for the door. “I shall wait for you outside.”
Slowly, I zip the bag open, my eyes growing wide as I take in the new outfit.
Ten minutes later, because it’s not the easiest thing to change into, I walk out of the suite in my newest dress.
It’s made of soft black leather. A deep plunging neckline exposes more cleavage than I’m used to. Straps and buckles crisscross over my hips, across my back. It stretches long to the floor.
I look like the goddess of war.
With an approving smile, Mina leads us to the elevator. Instead of rising up again, we go down. Plummeting in this speedy elevator, we dive through the belly of the MetroCosmo.
When the doors slide open, it’s to a nearly pitch-black hallway. Only faint blue lights line the floor, dimly guiding us forward.
There are roped lines leading up to doors, suggesting wherever we are headed is used frequently for events.
This is Vegas. And each casino has a showroom.
Perhaps this is where Sands of Set will be regularly performing.
Mina opens a door and I step inside.
It’s an arena. A huge stage is set below me, circled entirely by seats. The entire space is illuminated by gold and red lights. The thrones from upstairs have been moved down here, placed just on the edge of the stage.
There’s no one else here.
Carefully, so as to not trip, I descend the stairs.
Just as I step onto the stage, doors open from off to the right, and in files the House of Valdez.
They wear…costumes. Each of them is dressed like someone from an ancient time. Leather skirts with straps that look meant to hold weapons. They look like…gladiators.
From the shadows, a figure walks up to the stage. The lights glint off of a crown, and Cyrus steps into view.
“I do not enjoy the city of Las Vegas,” he says. His voice is low. Dangerous. He looks out at the House of Valdez, his eyes dark. He goes to stand in front of his throne. “It stinks of sin and deceit. It never grows dark. It never knows quiet. It races too fast, trying to be too modern.”
The room is deathly quiet, waiting to hear what their King has in store for them.
“It makes me long for a simpler time,” Cyrus says. The faintest tick of a smile pulls on the corner of his mouth. “A time when offenses were settled with iron and blood. A time of brutal entertainment. Oh, how I miss those days.”
He snaps his fingers and four men enter through the doors to the right. They’re burly, built. They carry large wooden crates. Without hesitating, they march up to the stage and set the crates down.
In them is an arsenal of weaponry. Shining iron. Spiked ore.
“It has been some time since I have enjoyed an old-fashioned gladiator fight,” Cyrus says. He extends a hand toward me, inviting me to
his side. I go, but my heart rate spikes. “And while we shall not fight to the death, we shall fight to the last man standing. And the victor shall enjoy a dance with this enchanting young woman at the ball tomorrow.”
My eyes widen but I keep as quick control as I can.
I am the prize?
One dance. To the victor of the last vampire standing?
As I look around, I see that each of them doesn’t see this as much of a prize, either. But I also know, they don’t have a choice in this.
This is King Cyrus’ entertainment. This is his punishment for what happened earlier.
“As House leader, I shall let you pick the opponents,” Cyrus says. “This will be a single elimination event, until our final two contestants. And everyone,” he turns his eyes to Hector, Rafael, and Edmond, “must participate.”
I hear the faint muttering of protest from some of the House members, but Edmond raises a hand, and they immediately fall silent.
“Pick your first two opponents,” Cyrus says darkly. He turns and crosses to his seat.
Slowly, I follow him, sinking into the seat beside him.
“Are you all right?” I quietly breathe without looking over at him.
Instead of answering, Cyrus extends his hand, scooping up mine. Without looking at me, he raises it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
Another silent thank you. An admission that no, he is not all right.
The crowd clears from the stage, leaving only two people behind. A man, tall and skinny, and a woman, tall and built. They each wield a sword.
A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. My stomach feels as if it dissolves inside of me.
This is real.
Those are sharp blades. This is an arena.
And there will be blood spilt.
“Fight!” Cyrus bellows.
Both of the contestants rush forward, swinging their blades.
The woman immediately connects with the man’s arm. I watch as if in slow motion, as it slices cleanly through his flesh. There isn’t even time for the blood to spill before the blade hits bone, and as if made of steel, the blade bounces back.
The man gives a roar of pain, clasping his hand to his arm as blood gushes from the wound. Feebly, he darts to the other side of the arena, no more than a blur, but the woman is instantly there in front of him, dealing another crushing blow. He staggers back, his eyes igniting bright red.